


Lose Sight of the Shore

by flowerdeluce



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Bedside Vigils, Broken Bones, Carrying, Crash Landing, Explosions, Fandom Giftbox, Fire, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Natural Disasters, Near Death Experiences, Podfic Available, Pre-Slash, Protectiveness, Temporary loss of limb, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-10-19 08:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20654120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: TheEnterpriseintercepts a distress call from a Starfleet outpost on a planet linked to a mysterious and ancient civilization.Eager to investigate the planet's archaeological treasures, Captain Picard involves himself in the risky rescue mission.





	Lose Sight of the Shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [River_Song](https://archiveofourown.org/users/River_Song/gifts).

> Your Fandom Giftbox request was so inspiring! You have the most excellent taste in whump. (I may have to borrow a large chunk of your whumpy likes for future fest signups as so many of them are RTMI!) I do hope you enjoy this story.
> 
> The Star Trek: TNG novel _Metamorphosis_ inspired many of Data’s injuries in this fic and his interpretation of 'pain.' If you haven’t read it, I’d highly recommend it. It has a pretty interesting plot, but most importantly, Data gets bashed up good :)
> 
> The title is from the Andre Gide quote: "One doesn't discover new lands without consenting to lose sight, for a very long time, of the shore."
> 
> Thank you to the persistently lovely asuralucier for beta-reading and encouragement.

> Second Officer’s log, stardate 46687.2
> 
> The _Enterprise_ is on route to the Rigas system following a distress call from the _USS Blythe_. The _Blythe_ is in the process of studying Rigas Four, a planet discovered three standard months ago during a test procedure for an experimental spectrographic scan. As a prior home to the ancient Saaremaaran civilization, Rigas Four remains cloaked by Saaremaaran technology.
> 
> A recent anomaly rendered the _Blythe_’s planetside equipment inoperable, including all systems on the orbiting ship with the exception of life support. Our long-range sensors are attempting to identify the cause before our arrival.
> 
> Transporter interference from unstable ionic fields in the planetary cloak will require us to deliver replacement instruments to the surface, and engineering teams to the _Blythe_, via shuttlecraft.
> 
> To preserve the planetary environment and reduce biological contagion, visiting teams consist of essential personnel only. Following consultation with the Federation Archaeology Council, Starfleet Command has accepted Captain Picard’s request to join me on Rigas Four in an away team of two.

Starfleet’s archive of the Saaremaarans flickered across Data’s personal console at a speed no human could read. The android’s yellow-gold eyes consumed detailed reports, log transcriptions, images, statistics, and journal articles. Like the rest of the crew, Data had been intrigued by the newly discovered Rigas Four since the _Enterprise_ received the _Blythe_’s distress call. His research was routine, however. While it was not a requirement of his duty, he always supplemented his knowledge repository with a relevant information transfer before away missions.

As Spot jumped onto Data’s lap and pierced his claws through his everything-but-cat-proof uniform, Data paused the information stream. It halted almost at the end of the chronology, displaying the _Blythe_’s most recent topographical scan of Rigas Four before the incident that put their ship out of action. Spot trotted up onto the desk, blocking the screen as he pressed the soft pink triangle of his nose against the map.

“Yes, Spot,” Data said, pointing at the outer rim of a perfectly circular crater on the map. Thin fractures grew from its center like legs around a fat-bodied insect. “That is where I am headed tomorrow.”

Spot bumped his face into Data’s hand, rubbed his nose along his knuckles, then dropped and rolled onto his back in a display of both trust and obligation. Before Data could indulge him in a tummy rub, the door chimed. It was well into the ship’s gamma shift, but Data had an idea of who his late visitor might be.

“Enter,” Data called.

The doors parted to reveal Captain Picard stood in the corridor looking tired yet enthused, still wearing his uniform, an apologetic smile pulling at his lips; the smile grew when he noticed Spot stretched across the desk.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr. Data.”

“Not at all, Captain.” From Picard’s body language and the small cloth bag he held against his chest, Data predicted this was not an official visit. He gestured towards the chair opposite his console. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

As Picard took the proffered seat, Spot bolted into a corner. The shadow of a tall potted plant with thick, rubbery leaves concealed him, his eyes shimmering in the subdued lighting as he watched the captain settle.

“I wanted to talk to you about the mission,” Picard said.

Data raised his chin to show interest.

“Well, in truth, I wanted to show you this.” Reaching into his bag, Picard withdrew an object about the size of a tricorder. It was egg-shaped, flat on one side, and from its brilliant, steel-grey shine, appeared to be some kind of metal. “I’ve never shown this to anyone before.”

He passed the object across, and Data took it.

“I purchased it almost twenty years ago at an auction of Saaremaaran artifacts. It was one of the strangest yet most fascinating archaeological events I’ve ever attended. The organizers had no idea to the age of this object, or its function. All they knew was its source: Alpha Liguria.”

It took Data less than a microsecond to access Alpha Liguria in his memory: it was the last abandoned Saaremaaran host planet to be discovered, stumbled upon eighty-four standard years ago by a trading vessel. Data viewed this artifact moments ago in his information transfer, listed in an auction catalog archived in Starfleet’s database beside sparse detail and a holographic blueprint. The buyer was listed as anonymous.

“I parted with more Federation credits for this than I’d care to admit,” Picard continued, watching Data turn the object in his hand. “The auction’s lots came in all shapes and sizes, and none of them meant anything to anyone. They might’ve been worthless trinkets or precious treasures to the Saaremaarans. We hadn’t any idea what we were bidding on, but that didn’t stop us. None of us could resist the mystery.”

“Is that why you chose to bid on this item, Captain?”

The object’s ovoid half was covered in fine intersecting grooves no wider than a human hair, with no discernible pattern; it gave it an interesting texture and sent flecks of light across the ceiling as he turned it. The flat side was as smooth as a mirror.

“I like to think this could’ve been used in personal grooming, comparable to a comb or an Ancient Greek strigil.” Leaning closer, Picard asked, “What are your thoughts, Mr. Data?”

Data scanned his memory bank for anything similar in design. He found nothing.

“Perhaps it is an example of Saaremaaran art, sir.”

“I thought as much at first,” Picard said, lacing his fingers on the desk’s edge. “But there were several of these left behind on Alpha Liguria, almost identical. It’s a common item, unless it’s part of a set of art objects, but...”

Spot skittered across the carpet, attracted by the light the object reflected, and jumped onto the desk between the captain and Data. As he pawed at the precious artifact, stress flash in Picard’s eyes, so Data passed it back to him immediately.

Returning it to the safety of its bag, Picard sat back in his chair. “I’m interested to hear your thoughts on another mystery, too: the blanking of the _Blythe_’s equipment.”

They had discussed the incident in the mission briefing earlier today, though no conclusions besides conjecture were drawn. The _Blythe_’s planetside xenoarchaeological team had cobbled a subspace radio together from parts of their inoperable instruments, and despite the _Blythe_’s continuing orbit, the officer leading the team had described their situation as ‘clinging on by the skin of their teeth’.

The blanking may have been a result of the cloaking technology, which remained as much a mystery to Starfleet as the Saaremaaran people did. If true, there was little they could do to stop it happening again.

Dr. Crusher had suggested the Saaremaarans were trying to shake off the unwanted visitors, like a dog dislodging fleas from its fur. They made great efforts to cover their tracks after leaving one planet and moving on to the next; it made sense that Starfleet’s investigations had caught their attention. However, of the six known worlds confirmed as prior Saaremaaran host planets, none had been affected by similar issues, at least none that had been reported.

“It is an intriguing situation,” Data began. “And one that may not have a simple solution.”

Picard nodded solemnly. “So much about the Saaremaarans seems to end in the universe collectively shrugging its shoulders.” He half-shrugged as he spoke, as though accepting the possibility of the mystery remaining exactly that.

“You know,” Picard continued, “the first time I read about them was in an archaeological journal at the Academy. I somehow fooled myself into thinking that once I reached the end, there’d be some great reveal, like the scene in the last chapter of a detective novel where everyone is brought together and the culprit’s method exposed. I couldn’t believe someone would publish an article with no conclusion. Perhaps we’ll find something worth publishing tomorrow.”

“Like what, sir?” Data asked. He scooped Spot from the desk and placed him on his lap. “Will the mission’s focus not be the rescue and repair work?”

“Yes of course,” Picard said, clearing his throat and sitting a little straighter. “But once that’s completed, we’ll have time to walk the surface of a planet once populated by an ancient, highly intelligent civilization, perhaps the universe’s first interstellar travelers. We’ll be knee-deep in the past, exactly as they left it!”

The captain had explained in the briefing how Saaremaaran cloaks not only hid planets following their abandonment but preserved them also. He had compared the suspended atmospheric conditions—with all weather systems and life down to the micro-bacterial level ‘frozen’ in time—to the ancient site of Earth’s Pompeii. However, these were not dead planets encased in ash. These planets were sheathed in a bubble of time that popped the moment the cloak was physically penetrated, life continuing once again.

“It’s another layer of mystery,” Picard said, smiling, “as it’s impossible to date anything on the surface. Rigas Four may have been waiting to be discovered for thousands of years or… just a few days. It’s fascinating.”

As Picard continued effusing about the galactic legend that was the Saaremaaran’s breadcrumb trail, a tiny fraction of the vast system that was Data’s mind followed another track. It considered deleting the information transfer the captain’s visit had interrupted so he might hear it all for what would seem the first time through his enthusiastic filter. Picard’s energy gave the topic new depth, added warmth to cold fact. Those facts pulled Picard’s face into whole-hearted smiles he rarely exhibited and left Data anticipating the mission all the more.

Another thread within Data’s positronic net focused on petting Spot, who was in a state of purring relaxation on his lap. Another continued analyzing the object at Picard’s feet, trying to find a link with something in the depths of his knowledge repository that might unravel its purpose. Yet another recalled what Dr. Soong once told him about humanity’s adoration for ‘old things.’

“I’m sorry, Data,” Picard said, raising his hand to suppress a yawn. “I’ve stayed well past my welcome and I’m boring you.” He gestured to Spot. “Even Spot’s fallen asleep to my wittering.”

“Quite the contrary, Captain. I cannot develop boredom, and I must admit, I am finding it most invigorating to hear your thoughts concerning topics you have a deep interest in.” He glanced down at Spot’s sleeping form, then lowered his voice program by thirty decibels. “Regarding Spot’s current inertia, I have discovered a dependable method of putting him to sleep – once his purring reaches a certain octave, the technique and speed in which I stroke his fur results in his falling asleep. I find this routine almost soothing myself.”

Picard adopted a similar whisper. “Well, I think I’ll follow Spot’s lead and get some sleep. Thank you for indulging me, Mr. Data.”

“It was my pleasure, Captain.”

Once Data was alone again, Spot sleeping peacefully across his lap, he continued the information transfer.

*

Picard gripped the arm of his command chair as the audio feed finally cut. The _Blythe_’s captain, the usually fiercely independent Joanna Heffernan, had been so grateful for the _Enterprise_’s help in getting her small, pure science vessel back in working order that she hadn’t been able to stop herself from thanking the captain at the end of every sentence shared across the static-heavy connection.

Captain Heffernan’s ship was in poor condition. La Forge had his work cut out for him.

Commander Riker, who would soon have the bridge, was to oversee the movement of crew and equipment to the _Blythe_ via shuttlecraft. As a _Blythe_ crewmember had developed issues with his artificial respirator in the systemwide malfunctions, Dr. Crusher would also be joining the initial shuttle team to offer her assistance.

To Picard, who’d been leaden with suspense since before he got out of bed, the mission preparations felt like they were taking a century. Seconds seemed to stretch on for minutes as he waited for the news that his landing shuttle was stocked, checked and re-checked, and ready to make its way down to Rigas Four’s presently invisible surface. It would be an interesting descent. According to Heffernan, passing through the cloak was a unique experience.

“It’s strange, Captain,” Counselor Troi said softly, perched on the edge of her seat at Picard’s left. “Sensing the presence of those on the planet through a cloak.”

Picard wondered if she was trying to distract him. It didn’t take an empath to see how impatient he was to get on with things. “Does it affect the clarity?” he asked, happy for the distraction.

“Yes. Their emotions are like… hearing voices through a door, or while underwater. I can sense the basic existence of the emotion, but I am not entirely sure what they’re feeling down there.” A smile brightened her face. “Thank goodness their radio signal didn’t suffer similar issues.”

“Do you sense any Saaremaaran lifeforms?”

“As I wouldn’t know what to look for, I can’t be certain, but nothing feels unfamiliar just…” she waved a manicured hand before her face, “diluted.”

Will, who had been signing off orders behind them, leaned over tactical. “Captain, do you have a minute?”

Picard joined Will at one of the aft science stations and hoped he wasn’t about to try to convince him to let someone else take his place on the surface again. He worried too much for his own good. Starfleet had allowed one crewmember besides Data to walk upon what was, to some extent, the hallowed ground of Rigas Four. It was the captain’s prerogative that he be the one to fill that position, and Picard would not deprive himself of such an exceptional opportunity—the kind any archaeological-minded person in his acquaintance would give their right arm to experience—simply to assuage Will’s anxiety.

On the station’s screen, a map of the Rigas system waited patiently for Picard’s attention. Rigas Four and its nearby planets appeared as small white dots upon the star-studded rectangle of black.

Will cleared his throat. “While we still haven’t found the cause of the systems failures, our initial long-range scan did pick this up.” He pointed to a corner of the map. A small green dot slid its way across the screen at a snail’s pace. “An S-type asteroid is due to pass through this system in the next few hours.”

When Will stopped, lacing his fingers at the small of his back and straightening his posture, Picard realized it was his turn to speak. “I… don’t see how that’s cause for concern.”

“Sir, with all the strange occurrences surrounding Rigas Four, I don’t think it’s safe for you to go down to the planet until the asteroid passes.”

Picard didn’t blink. “Commander, there has been one ‘strange occurrence’, and I hardly consider an asteroid that’s almost a lightyear away posing even the slightest threat to the mission.”

Riker planted his feet and stood even straighter. “Sir, I—”

Picard brought the asteroid’s trajectory up on the map. Its gravitationally predictable path was a thick translucent smear across the map, and nowhere close to Rigas Four. It was barely in the fringes of the system.

“I appreciate the forewarning, Number One, but I’m willing to take the risk, if there is any at all. Should anything change, I have full confidence in your ability to deflect the asteroid with any method you so choose.”

“Sir.” Will’s eyes were unusually wide, almost pleading, yet they retained a seriousness that made Picard pay attention. “This mission… it almost feels like a bad omen. Wouldn’t it be safer to wait a few hours more?”

Picard’s commbadge chirped. A gruff, mildly impatient voice came from it—Lieutenant Worf’s.

“Captain, your shuttle is ready. All supplies are aboard.”

“Acknowledged. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Picard closed the link and looked back at Will. “A bad omen?”

Will’s concern wasn’t only in his eyes now; it gave his whole face a striking heaviness. “The location of the current outpost.” He referred to the site where the _Blythe_ ground crew had concealed their outpost: the crater Picard’s shuttle was due to land in. “It’s almost like we’re tempting fate.”

Picard patted the commander’s shoulder. “Lightning doesn’t strike twice, Will.”

Riker went to speak again but stopped, giving one sharp nod instead. Looking down at the map, he took one final pained glance at the asteroid’s trajectory before clearing the screen to its usual readouts.

*

Over the years they had served on the _Enterprise_ together, the crew had become more accepting of Data. Though, acceptance wasn’t perhaps the right word. They’d developed a kind of patience and sympathy for the way he spoke and behaved, prided themselves in helping him shape his many differences into something more… human. Despite this growing bond, Picard was sure some crewmembers, even those who considered Data a close friend, would have difficulty sharing a confined space such as a shuttlecraft with him for a prolonged period. Picard, however, relished the opportunity.

Since becoming a starship captain, Picard found that anyone he shared a shuttlecraft with went to great lengths to befit their present company. They’d tell extravagant stories about how they’d once saved this day or that day, try impressing him with unplanned maneuvers that made his stomach turn, boast about their achievements outside Starfleet. And if Picard attempted to escape the overbearing conversation by reading or moving to an aft compartment, they tried even harder to keep his interest.

Then there was Data. Data took no offense if Picard requested a comfortable silence. He piloted smoothly and steadily, giving appropriate updates when requested. One knew exactly what he was in for during a journey with Data. In Picard’s estimation, that made him an ideal traveling companion.

The rear compartment of the shuttle was crammed from floor to ceiling with the supplies requested by the _Blythe_’s small planetside team: equipment to help repair their instruments, crates of replacements for those beyond repair, and power cells for their drained replicator and on-site computers. Once the repairs were completed, the emptied compartment would hold the team members themselves, who’d be brought on board the _Enterprise_ for some well-needed rest and recuperation during the _Blythe_’s repair.

“I’m eager to meet the Professor in person,” Picard continued, staring through the viewport as Data navigated towards what appeared to be nothing more than a patch of stars. He spoke of Professor Ophelia Clarke, one of the universe’s only Saaremaaran experts, who awaited their aid down on the surface.

“She’s dedicated her life to the Saaremaarans, so we may run into difficulty persuading her to leave.” After a sigh not unlike a schoolboy with a crush, Picard added, “I’d love to pick her brain.”

Concern flashed across Data’s features. His eyes flickered from side to side as he accessed the term. Picard smiled when Data raised his chin in understanding and hoped the commander wouldn’t introduce the professor to him by citing his desire to harvest her organs.

“I never dreamed another Saaremaaran host world would be discovered during my lifetime,” Picard mused, returning his focus to the empty starfield. “She must be in her element.”

He began listing almost every fact he knew about the discovery of Alpha Liguria: the decade-spawning arguments over who could claim ownership of the bounty found on the surface, the predictions made about the locations of other Saaremaaran planets based on their desired ecological conditions and lack of sentient species, even the superstitions and hearsay he’d heard at conferences once the sessions ended and the Gamzian wine flowed.

Picard realized, belatedly, that he’d become the shuttle passenger he despised: the chatty, excitable one who couldn’t stop showing off. But if he got Data on his side, as excited over the Saaremaarans as he was the Sherlock Holmes canon or dressing up for one of his intimate Shakespearean performances, he would at least have someone to share his enthusiasm with.

“We are approaching the coordinates provided by the _Blythe_, sir,” Data said. “Still reading nothing ahead.”

“Take her in gently,” Picard replied, squeezing his hands together in his lap as he looked through the viewport with such anticipation he could barely sit still. If all went to plan, Rigas Four would slide into view beneath them any second now.

Then it did.

The view of the planet flickered weakly. It had a faded translucency about it, distant stars remaining visible behind it as though the planet were an image projected onto a veil hanging in space. As the image strengthened, Picard could make out their landing site. The large grey crater sat within a copper-colored continent like an egg in a nest. Blue veins fed the surrounding land, water meandering from white-topped mountains toward a wide, glittering ocean. It had the appearance of any other M-Class planet, but Picard knew better.

A blinding light flared, filling the shuttle’s interior with white as brilliant as a sun going nova. They shielded their eyes.

“I have a lock on the surface,” Data announced. “I believe we are now passing through the cloak.”

Picard’s eyes adjusted. The planet was no longer visible. There was only white, as though the shuttle had been dropped into a glass of milk.

Then, out of the emptiness, a floating lattice emerged, like the gridlines on the holodeck’s black walls, only these weren’t yellow, and they weren’t rigidly straight. It twisted into links, the spaces between of varying asymmetrical shapes, and its vibrant color appeared to shift from one end of the spectrum to the other. Further networks emerged, layered on top of one another. They undulated as though alive, a network of veins pulsing with light, feeding color across interwoven surfaces. Some of those veins looped out from the intricate mesh like solar flares, reaching into space before feeding back in.

Picard thought he heard Data say something. The view had him so mesmerized, he almost wanted to ignore him.

“What was that, Data?” he asked in a whisper in deference to the kaleidoscopic sight before him, not looking away from it.

“There may be a sensor malfunction. I am reading nothing between the shuttle and the planet.”

“To be expected,” Picard assured. “Saaremaaran cloaking technology is outside the limits of our knowledge.”

Picard gasped when the twisted grid systems shimmered and writhed. The threads appeared freshly radiant after their shift. Every known color and hue now whirled and glittered before his eyes, alongside some he was sure his inferior optical nerves couldn’t comprehend. As the shuttle continued through the cloak, he saw each thread consisted of thousands more, each more complex and colorful. 

Captain Heffernan was right. Passing through the cloak was a unique experience. Picard might’ve gone as far as to say it was a sublime one. It was an honor few would get to see.

“Mr. Data?” Picard asked, still not looking away. “Tell me this doesn’t touch you.”

“‘Touch me’, sir?”

“Does it move you?” He simply did not believe the view did not affect him. The dazzling sight could’ve coaxed a rock to shed a tear.

Data looked up from the panels, iridescent rainbows shimmering across his golden skin as he gave the view his attention. His lips parted as he followed one of the dancing coils of light, and Picard thought he saw something like awe in Data’s eyes then, a kind of epiphany. Finding himself more captivated by Data’s expression than the Saaremaaran light show, he placed an encouraging hand on his forearm.

There had been occasions when Picard was certain Data was experiencing emotion, or at least his own unique equivalent of it, but when he couldn’t translate it into something he understood, he brushed it aside as impossible. This time, Data might grasp the possibilities open to him if he only allowed it.

Softly, Data began to speak. “It is quite—”

A great lurch from the engines threw them back in their seats. The shuttle shook violently, her trembling bulkheads groaning as Data scrabbled at the helm for purchase, clinging to its edge with one hand as his other flew across the controls. The shuttle careened to one side, then dropped into a spin; the resulting g-force pinned Picard to his chair.

The cloak disappeared in a blink as they hit the planet’s atmosphere.

“We have lost attitude control and shields,” Data shouted, his voice carrying over the roar of the atmosphere against the unshielded hull. His fingers moved in a blur across the inertial controls. “Secondary systems not responding.”

As a red-hot gaseous glow streamed past the viewport, the systems arrays blanked. Picard’s reflection stared back from the shuddering black glass, unable to move, the g-force so much he struggled to keep his eyelids open.

“Engines failing,” Data exclaimed. “Attempting manual override.”

Was that fear in Data’s voice, Picard thought, or was it the vibration of the shuttle’s every bolt and panel making it seem so?

There was a brief reprieve from the spiraling as Data managed to get the engines operational again. The thrusters rumbled beneath their feet, the controls stuttering on and off. Red alert’s klaxon blared. It was a sound Picard usually blocked out. Now, it filled him with dread.

Riker’s panicked voice broke through the wall of sound and burning red. The connection was patchy and distorted, static breaking up his words.

_. . . tractor be— . . . deflect . . . —ton pulse . . . we’re trying . . ._

The console erupted in a shower of sparks. Carbon dioxide hissed into the cockpit, pre-empting flames. Rigas Four’s surface grew larger and larger in the viewport as they hurtled towards the crater’s hollow.

“Hull integrity breach on our port side, Captain,” Data called through the confusion. “Sensors are . . .”

His voice faded away as Picard lost consciousness.

*

Picard reached across and topped up Robert’s wineglass. René sat at his father’s feet; a beautifully wrapped gift almost as big as him balanced on his crossed legs. A large bow graced the top of the rectangular package, red ribbons flowing over the sides like an erupting volcano.

“Can I open it now?” René asked, red and green lights glistening in his eyes from the Christmas tree. He appeared to be asking the question of his uncle.

Picard looked to Marie for permission. A soft smile spread across her lips before she nodded.

As René’s small hands tore the edges of the sparkling wrapping, Picard watched with curiosity. For some reason, he was unable to remember what was inside and, once the paper was off, he was no closer to finding out.

“You’d better keep going,” Robert said, sipping his Chateau Picard.

René stared at the package in confusion. A second layer of paper sat beneath the one he’d sheared off: a cerulean foil. He snatched at it savagely, peeling the foil away to reveal a layer of silver paper beneath. Beneath that one was a rich purple sheet, and beneath that, a smoky black that reminded Picard of the darkest reaches of deep space.

The boy’s tearing became more frantic, more violent, until the sound of it was almost unbearably loud. Layers upon layers of paper came away, yet the package never seemed to get any smaller. Foils crinkled and crunched in René’s fists, the screwed-up sheets piling beside him, edging closer to the open fireplace and…

_Fire!_

Picard’s eyes shot open. Flames crackled loudly at his side. He snatched his arm into his chest as he rolled away from the intense heat. Black smoke filled the cockpit, hanging soot-thick in the air. Its acrid taste invaded Picard’s mouth and stung his eyes until they ran with tears. He coughed violently as the blistering air scorched his throat.

“Data,” he spluttered, trying to crawl in the opposite direction to the fire, but he couldn’t see, had no idea which way to go.

He reached out blindly, found the main array panel and followed its smooth edge with his palm. The shuttlecraft was on its side. Or he was.

There was an almighty crash and shattering of glass. As air rushed in, the flames surged closer, devouring the fresh oxygen and catching the wrist of Picard’s uniform. Reaching through the smoke, Data grabbed him and pulled him through the smashed viewport, wrapping a hand tight around the flame on his sleeve to suffocate it.

Outside, Picard couldn’t see more than an inch in front of him. Tears continued streaming down his face as he blinked and coughed and slumped to his knees. Data kept hold of him, his fierce grip threatening to snap Picard’s wrist in two. The impact had kicked up a dust cloud, the loosened chalk-like powder caking into the sweat on Picard’s hands and clinging to his tearstained cheeks.

They were in the crater. He knew that much. From within the flaming shuttle, the alert klaxon blared ominously. The crater made a natural amphitheater, bouncing the repetitious warning across the vast basin and sending it back at them as an eerie, persistent echo.

“Captain,” Data wrenched Picard up from his knees and dragged him onwards with no care for his comfort. “We must distance ourselves from the shuttle. The power cells may—”

The force of the explosion threw them both to the ground.

Picard’s eardrums rung in protest. The sound of debris clattering around him seemed dull and distant. He still couldn’t see to avoid the raining metal, couldn’t draw breath without dust sticking to his teeth. Oh, to be back in his dream, safe in his childhood home with his family, not here where everything hurt.

Data spoke again, but his voice was too muffled to make out. He pulled Picard from the ground and they hobbled away from the shuttle’s wreckage and, finally, made it out of the dust cloud, scorched and shaken but miraculously alive.

“What happened?” Picard asked, the words scratching at his throat. He wiped his eyes as the air cleared. Data’s black and gold silhouette was blurred in his bleared vision. “How did…”

His jaw dropped when the sky over Data’s shoulder came into focus, and the cause of the crash was no longer an immediate concern. An asteroid was hurtling towards them, its white-hot tail burning behind it as it broke what appeared to be the planet’s cloak.

There was no time to think. Picard turned and ran with no real direction in mind, aware he was running for his life.

“Data to _Enterprise_.” Data ran at Picard’s side, hand on his commbadge. His voice was entirely unaffected by the effort of his sprint. “_Enterprise_, do you read me? . . . Commander Data to _Blythe_ outpost.”

The latter was a futile attempt at communication and Picard suspected Data knew that, but their options were limited. And what were those options exactly?

Coughing as he ran, Picard noticed Data drop back, looking skyward as he skidded to a graceful halt. He was back beside him seconds later, his pace inhumanly fast before slowing to match Picard’s.

“Sir, the asteroid is breaking up. I predict that if we continue at this pace—” he checked over his shoulder again, still running abreast his captain. “This is… not standard atmospheric dispersal.”

Nothing about this mission had been standard so far. It wasn’t going to start now.

Unable to run any further, Picard stopped and slumped forward, hands on knees, dizzied from the stress on his over-exerted muscles. “How - far … outpost?”

Eyes on the heavens again, Data said, “One point two kilometers, sir. Somehow, the cloak appears to be affecting the disintegration. We must keep moving if we are to stand any chance of outrunning the probable debris.”

Picard dared to look. High above, the asteroid was indeed breaking up, but those pieces shattered from its main bulk were falling into and through the cloak’s invisible gridlines like grains of flour through a sieve. It sent them scattering as they fell, covering a much larger area. Some chunks of rock were already disintegrating in the atmosphere, bolides exploding in bursts of white. Those that had made it through were raining down in a shower of fireballs, clattering against each other, and who knew where they’d end up or how many would make it that far.

It seemed hopeless, but Picard refused to go down easy. Despite his every muscle screaming out for him to breathe and rest, he picked up his feet and sprinted across the crater’s flat terrain, trying not to think about whether being struck by a thousand-degree hunk of rock would be a swift death. It was never the way he expected to die, that was for sure.

The meteorites burst the air as the speed of their descents broke the sound barrier, sonic booms ricocheting around the crater’s bowl.

A sizzling whoosh like a lioness’ snarl split the air, ending abruptly as the first meteorite slammed into the dirt a hundred meters ahead; a plume of dust spewed up in its wake like a dry geyser. Picard’s legs stopped on instinct, as if sensing he was running into danger; he almost toppled over them onto his face, but Data caught him. Shadows glided across the ground around them, the only warning they’d get before the meteorites causing them found a place to land.

The dread Picard had fought hard to suppress made its way into his heart. He was afraid, deathly afraid. His hands trembled.

“We must keep going,” Data urged, holding Picard’s arm almost tenderly, as though he knew the situation was hopeless. He looked back up to the sky over Picard’s shoulder and his lips parted.

Picard swallowed, recalling the look of awe on Data’s face at the sight of the cloak on the shuttle. This expression differed. It was heavier, laced with dread, and Picard wasn’t sure which of the gods he should pray to. As he opened his mouth to tell Data it had been a pleasure serving with him, Data shoved him to the ground and threw his body over him.

Meteorites pummelled down around them, shockwaves throbbing through the ground and up into Picard’s body, rattling his bones. He had no say in Data sacrificing himself, couldn’t resist his strength when he forced Picard’s knees under his own torso, arms too, the length of his heavy frame pinning him face-down. His arm enclosed Picard’s skull, shoving his head hard into his chest so his chin dug into his breastbone.

There wasn’t a half-second between the impacts. They crashed down one after the other like hoofbeats of a thousand horses galloping across the dust, destroying everything in their path. The seismic tremors were so violent Picard thought his teeth might crack in his gums. While his body shook beyond his control, Data’s stayed rigid, a protective cocoon holding him in place.

The heat of the relentless impacts was boiling the very air around them. Steam hissed beyond Data’s hold, singed Picard’s nostrils as he struggled to breathe and stuck his uniform to his skin. Some fallen rocks sounded like they were cracking and shattering from the extreme temperatures.

A sudden, searing pain winded Picard, had him gasping at hot air. Data was struck, the impact pounding him against Picard’s back. Picard’s ribs cracked, and all he could do was grind his jaw and clench his fists, his agonized howl lost in the chaos. The temperature increased, blistering Picard’s arm, and he realized Data’s body was no longer shielding him fully; he’d gone limp, his head hanging heavily over his shoulder as he slid to one side, leaving him half-exposed.

The impacts were slowing, but Picard didn’t dare move. Not yet. If he’d chosen to move, he doubted he’d have managed it; fear immobilized him; the pain numbed his mind. And Data…

He struggled up onto blistered hands and aching knees, gasping at the sharp stab of pain in his side. The crater’s formerly smooth surface was littered with debris, all hissing pockmarks from meteorites burrowed into the dirt and rocks piled atop each other, glowing orange. Some continued falling, rolling down the crater’s slopes, bouncing off in random directions. He winced up at the sky. More pieces remained caught in the cloak, making it appear like an eerie black cloud spitting giant black hailstones. The worst was over, but they had to vacate ground zero, and Picard had to turn and face what he dreaded the most.

His heart sank at the sight of Data’s damaged body. The back of his uniform had burnt away, shreds of operations gold hanging from what remained of his shoulders. Where the meteorite had struck him, his synthetic skin was smashed open like an eggshell, the skeletal structure of his spine, shoulders and neck exposed, circuitry fused and fractured. A portion of his scalp had peeled away, the delicate components it once concealed singed and misplaced atop his alloys. Diodes that usually twinkled in red and green, indicative of functioning systems, were all extinguished.

Reaching out, wincing with the effort of moving the commander’s dead weight, Picard rolled him over. A few meters away, a meteorite smashed into the ground.

Data’s eyes were open, the surface of his synthetic eyeballs coated in a film of the crater’s dust. Like his eyes, the rest of his face was motionless, set like marble. Thick streaks of what looked like molten plastic dripped from behind his ear like black blood.

“Data?” Picard wiped the dust from Data’s cheek with his sweat-soaked sleeve, unable to summon the courage to wipe his eyes. “Can you hear me?”

There was no response. No glimmer of recognition.

Picard clutched his injured side and sucked in a shaking breath. Hunching over, he clenched his jaw to stifle a wail, trying desperately to push his devastation away, swallow the emotions down.

Data had given his life for him. Data, a marvel of technology, the only one of his kind, had chosen protecting his captain over his own life. And now Picard had to leave him here, a casualty of duty.

“Cap . . . tain.” Data’s voice was tinny and robotic, and incredibly weak, but Picard held back tears of relief at hearing it.

Two red diodes flickered in Data’s exposed scalp. His left side spasmed, left eye opening and closing, rolling and twitching, his eyebrow moving about wildly above it. His right hand formed into a point, angling towards a distant spot within the crater.

“You . . . must . . . get to . . . the outpost.” He seemed on the verge of shutting down, as if he’d used his last shred of emergency power to tell Picard which way to go.

Picard took Data’s arm and carefully tried to tug him to his feet, wincing from his own injury, but he was too heavy to move. As he let go of him, the sheath of synthetic skin surrounding Data’s ruined shoulder slid down his bicep revealing the metal rods and sensor mesh beneath. There was no time to be horrified.

“Get up, Data.”

“Leave . . . me.” Data’s voice came from somewhere within his head, his jaw and mouth immobilized, jammed half-open. The impact had damaged his vocal apparatus too, as his voice was so distorted it sounded like it was being transmitted through an ion storm. He continued twitching helplessly as Picard stood above him, still holding his side.

“Can you move?”

A churning, mechanical noise came from Data’s torso. Through gaping holes in his skin, more diodes flickered to life, connectors and flexors sliding back and forth within internal components, spitting out dust as they came back online. In a shuddery movement that appeared to take considerable effort, Data moved his arm and pushed his broken body into a sitting position.

“Good,” Picard said, shadows sweeping the ground around them as meteorites continued slamming down. He called over the noise of their descents, “Now get up,” and tried not to flinch when they hit.

Data peered up at him. His one good eye locked on to Picard’s face as the other continued twitching and rolling in its socket. A white spark spat out from his jaw. Without warning, he fell straight onto his back. “I will . . . slow you . . . down.”

“Get up!” Pain shot through Picard’s chest as he bent to grab him. Gritting his teeth, he focused on the matter at hand. “That is – an order, Commander.”

Obeying, Data rolled onto his side and struggled to push himself upright again. Despite the pain, Picard helped him to his feet and tried not to be concerned by parts of Data’s smashed circuitry falling loose and dropping into the dust.

Data’s uniform was burnt down the side of his leg, a large patch of material missing at the thigh, its edges fused to his bioplast. The tip of his left boot had disintegrated, as if a bite had been taken out of it, his pale toes sticking awkwardly through the remaining material.

Once he was standing, Data’s body spasmed violently, and Picard was sure he heard him gasp.

“I . . . feel . . .”

“Pain?” Picard grabbed him before he could fall. “Data, are you in pain!”

“To inform me of . . . malfunction—” his head dropped forward, his garbled voice continuing to seep out through his set jaw “—my sensors . . . create signals that . . . are unpleasant . . . until repairs are set . . . in motion.”

Picard couldn’t imagine what that must be like, but words of comfort or courage fell from his head as a meteorite struck less than ten feet away. No more stalling. They had to get out of here.

“Walk Data. _Now_.”

The movement Data made at the command was shaky and unsure, like a foal taking its first step. His leg shuddered forward, balance shifting as internal rods hissed and whirred. He slumped against Picard’s shoulder.

“Captain, my . . . ambulatory subroutine has . . . failed.”

“Teach yourself!” He tried leading him, almost dragging him, but it was hopeless. He was too heavy and too damaged.

“Please leave me, Captain. You are endangering yourself further . . . by assisting me.” The pauses in his speech were decreasing, as were his spasms, which could’ve meant his self-repair mechanisms were returning some of his function.

“I’m endangering myself by arguing with you, Data. Do not disobey my orders. Walk!”

Data stayed frozen to his spot. “You must get to the outpost. I can be repaired.”

“As can I!”

When Data slumped and fell limply onto his side at Picard’s feet in a peaceful yet maddening protest, Picard groaned, infuriated.

“God damn it, Data!” He squatted at Data’s side, wincing. “I either stay here with you or we both make a run for it. Now you calculate which option has the best odds and make your decision.” As dust sprayed across his face from a nearby impact, he added, “And do it quickly.”

After what felt like hesitation—as Data was unable to exhibit any of his usual facial expressions in his current state—Data got to his feet.

“I will require your assistance.”

“Noted.”

With an arm draping Picard’s shoulder, Data figured out how to walk without his subroutine. They staggered together, avoiding the rocks scattered in their path. Even in his poor state, Data knew which way to go and, after a minute or two, could stand and walk of his own accord.

“I am ready to run, Captain.” He sounded more confident, though he didn’t look any less disturbing. Picard wondered if he was still experiencing ‘pain.’

The cloak’s filter kept spitting out rocks, though few remained caught in its grid. Most were small enough to burn up before reaching the surface, but the threat remained. There had already been so many near misses—and one right on target, if the target was Data. They couldn’t dawdle.

As soon as they began a light sprint, Picard felt on the verge of retching. Breathing was agony, both inhaling and exhaling. And as the initial adrenaline wore off, he noticed other pains. His burnt arm. Residual aching in his neck from the shuttle crash. Throbbing in his singed throat. They were all joining together into one agonising mass, his nervous system aflame. He needed energy to keep going, and he simply didn’t have it. Data took his arm as his pace slowed.

“Point three kilometers remain, Captain,” he said, and Picard sensed encouragement in his robotic tone.

Yes! They were close. The outpost’s structure glimmered up ahead in the crater’s slope like a diamond in mud. A rush of motivation pushed Picard through the wall of exhaustion and pain. He sprinted ahead, sweat dripping into his eyes.

In a deafening blast of sound, Picard was knocked off his feet as Data shoved him with his entire weight, sending him flying face-first into the dust.

Picard didn’t fight blacking out. In the darkness, the pain ceased. Seconds of blissful, dreamless silence enveloped him, allowing him to rest, away from the danger.

His consciousness returned in a disorienting flood.

The dust covering him resettled as he rolled onto his back. A huge meteorite sat hissing beside him, the heat belching from it making Picard’s eyes water and his nose run. On its other side, Data’s mangled body was almost buried in the dirt. The bioplast on his fingers had completely burnt away, his skeletal metal fingers twitching beside his face, half of which was also stripped of its usual covering.

Picard could only stare at him.

In the distance, another meteorite fell, the lone sound echoing. They were few and far between now, but still there, thudding against the dust like a slowly beating heart.

Crawling onto hands and knees, Picard coughed. A bitter fluid rose in his throat, spilled over his chin as he spluttered blood across the dirt. He ignored it and made his way to Data, reaching out to him with smarting, trembling hands. Pieces of Data’s body were scattered around him. One of the larger pieces, Picard realized, was Data’s leg, severed below the hip.

“Don’t – worry,” Picard breathed, unaware if Data could hear him. He stroked the bare alloy of his artificial cheekbone with the back of his hand. “I’ll get you – out of here.”

Where he summoned the energy from, he didn’t know, but he managed to manhandle the commander into a position wherefrom he could lift him. He angled his shattered torso against his abdomen, bending his remaining leg and supporting it behind the knee. With his other arm bracing his neck, he heaved Data up and let his weight settle against his chest. He was heavy, less so without one of his legs and a large portion of his internal components, but Picard refused to leave him like a piece of broken equipment.

Every step hurt. His muscles tensed at every nearby thud of rock. Through ringing ears and blurred vision, he pushed on, kept putting one foot in front of the other, carrying what remained of Data in his arms, his limp, lifeless body almost destroyed past recognition.

When he reached the bunker, a visibly shaken Professor Clarke pushed open the thick metal door. Team members rushed over to assist, their hands pressing against Picard’s shoulders to stop him collapsing backward under his companion’s weight.

_Help Data_, Picard wanted to tell them, too delirious to realize it was impossible from their current location. Without letting go of Data, he slumped onto his knees and hunched over his body.

The cool kiss of a hypospray to the nape of his neck sapped his consciousness away from the pain. The last thing he felt was Data’s weight in his arms.

*

Beverly looked down at him, a comforting smile that didn’t reach her eyes helping settle Picard back into consciousness. He was in the _Enterprise_’s sickbay; he’d know its sterile air and soft white illumination anywhere.

“How’s—” He coughed, mouth dry. His throat felt like it was stuffed full of tritanium wire.

“Data’s in the bed beside you,” Beverly said softly. She smiled again, though it seemed weaker this time. “Just relax. You’ve been through a lot.”

While she peered down at him, concern heavy in her eyes, an assistant passed a medical scanner over Picard’s chest. Over Beverly’s shoulder, several people crowded the next bed along, La Forge’s voice among them.

“Your burns are healing nicely, and I’ve done my best with the bruising.” With a motherly, almost chiding expression, she added, “And you had _five_ broken ribs, Jean-Luc. Five. They’ll ache for a while I’m afraid. Oh, and you’re recovering from a concussion.” She rested a hand on her hip. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to give me extra work.”

Before Picard could ask, Beverly passed him a cup of water filled almost to the top. His hand shook as he gulped at it, some spilling down his chin in his eagerness. The sensation of it, cool and refreshing against his parched, sore throat, was bliss. It crept into every nook in his mouth, rehydrating the wilting muscle of his tongue.

While he drank, Beverly explained that the _Blythe_ crew from the surface and the ship were on board, that Riker was looking into the cause of the gravity shift that caused the asteroid to alter its course, and that she was prescribing him bed rest for forty-eight hours at least before allowing him to return to active duty.

“Data?” he asked again once he’d finished the water, trying to sit up.

She placed her hand on his chest, exerting a gentle pressure to keep him on his back. “Lie still so the inflammation has a chance to subside. Data’s…” Her eyes searched. “Not regaining what we’d call consciousness.”

Wincing, Picard sat up and swung his legs over the side of his biobed. Beverly jumped back to avoid a kick to the shins.

“Captain, you must rest!”

Pushing his way through the crowd of engineering and sickbay staff huddled around the next biobed, Picard saw Data lying on his back, eyes closed, all limbs accounted for. He looked peaceful and, with a fresh uniform and boots, more like himself again, all exterior elements repaired and, Picard hoped, his interior ones also. Several machines stood around the bed that weren’t immediately recognizable, one connected to a port in Data’s open temple by a thin translucent wire. La Forge unplugged it.

“We’ve done all we can,” La Forge said, voice solemn. He turned to Picard, then the others, his pained expression visible behind his VISOR. “His systems are functioning, but he’s not coming-to.”

Picard’s voice came out hoarsely. “Have you tried other forms of communication?”

“Yes, Captain. Scans of his neural net show his sensors are functioning, they’re just failing to connect with one another. For all we know, Data may be aware of what’s happening, but I can’t tell.”

Nurse Ogawa put her hand on La Forge’s arm. “It’s almost like he’s in shock,” she said to Picard. “Perhaps if we allow him more time to recover, he’ll respond soon.” Her voice had a quality Picard knew meant she didn’t quite believe what she was saying. “Let’s give him some space.”

As the others filed away dejectedly, Picard stayed at Data’s side. La Forge and his team had worked hard to get Data back to his former self. There were no seams on his face where his bioplast had been repaired. His hands looked no different than they had before the crash. Picard, however, could only see how he’d appeared after the second meteorite struck. Burnt and broken. Pulverized. More metal than man.

“I feel useless.” Beverly’s voice. She was unfolding a thin blanket at the foot of the bed. “All I can do now is keep him comfortable, though I wish I knew what that meant for Data.”

Picard reached for the blanket. “Here, let me.”

She snatched it away. “You should be resting.”

While she tucked the blanket neatly under Data’s arm, Picard did the same on his side of the bed. Beverly sighed, accepting she wasn’t going to get her way before bothering to ask Picard to get back to his own bed.

“I’ll get you a chair.”

*

No one had spoken to Picard in a while. Beverly had finished her shift and hinted that he could monitor Data’s condition perfectly well from his bed. One of the nurses had filled Picard’s cup with more water. The ensign from the _Blythe_ who’d had trouble with his respirator had come in for a brief and quiet test of his blood oxygen level.

A quiet sorrow hung over sickbay while Data remained unresponsive. Picard considered how no one had suggested moving Data out of intensive care. He didn’t need to be here, not really, but Picard sensed the staff would feel uncomfortable moving him elsewhere, as though they’d be treating him less than human if they did.

The doors hissed open while Picard kept watch over the only current patient besides himself.

“How’re you feeling?” Will’s voice, concerned, and without the ‘told you so’ sarcasm Picard had expected.

“Wretched,” he answered honestly.

Will patted his shoulder and Picard winced. “Yep. That’s about what I was feeling when I saw the whole thing happen from up here. You know, from the safety of the ship?”

That hadn’t taken long.

“Yes, yes,” Picard said, shushing him with a weak wave of his hand. “You were right and I was wrong. Now do you feel better?”

Will smirked. “A little.” They turned their attention back to Data. “How is he?”

“No change.”

“You’re lucky you were unconscious when we first got him here. Everyone wanted to help. I never thought I’d see people lining up to get into sickbay. I had to send most of them away.” Will sounded exhausted, and it was no wonder. A double shift as acting captain with an impromptu rescue mission would do that. “But I have some good news.”

“Oh?”

“Beverly will give me what for for telling you,” he lowered his voice, “as we’re supposed to be reducing your stress, but I know you’ll want to hear this.”

Picard turned in his seat, readying himself.

“We haven’t traced the source of the gravitational flux yet, but we found something else. The _Blythe_’s sensors were malfunctioning when it happened, and they latched on to a residual signal. We’ve analyzed it and found traces of an unknown ionized radiation that appears to be leaving a faint trail.” He raised his eyebrows as though hopeful Picard would catch what he was suggesting. Seeing it wasn’t going to happen, he cut straight to the point. “The trail leads from Alpha Liguria to Rigas Four, then further into the Ophiuchus system. I’ve been in contact with Starfleet Command about it, and they want us to follow it.”

Picard smiled weakly. “Good work, Number One.” He turned back to Data.

“You realize what I’m saying?” Will asked, mildly taken aback by his captain’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Yes.” He nodded. “You’re saying that we may be on the trail of the Saaremaarans. You’re implying there’s a high probability of finding their next host planet, perhaps even the Saaremaarans themselves.” Inhaling a deep breath that tugged on his aching ribs, he continued. “Under normal circumstances, I’d be delighted by such a mission, but while Data is recovering…” Unsure of how to finish that sentence, he let it hang.

Behind him, Will said, “Of course. I’ll let you get some rest. I have every confidence in Geordi to get Data back to his old self. He always does.”

*

Picard stirred awake. He’d fallen asleep awkwardly, slumped against the edge of Data’s bed, and his body ached.

La Forge was standing on the opposite side, bent over, waving an instrument back and forth across Data’s temple. It emitted a soft, pulsing light, humming melodically in sickbay’s dim lighting, bright enough to illuminate La Forge’s sleep attire: a mauve silk robe over pajamas.

“Sorry to wake you, Captain,” La Forge whispered. “I had a brainwave and thought this might bring him back online.”

Picard shifted to a more comfortable position, still half draped over the bed. He was dog-tired, and not entirely sure if he was dreaming. The instrument’s shifting light reflected from Data’s skin, casting a golden glow onto La Forge’s silk. It reminded Picard of the cloak’s splendor as the shuttle passed through.

Closing his eyes, temple resting on his forearms, he recalled those whorls of color, before everything wonderous twisted to horror. His memory wasn’t a patch on experiencing it; nothing like Data’s memory record.

He’d always felt mildly envious of Data’s ability to recall memory with perfect, photographic precision. For experiences like passing through the cloak, it could well be a blessing, but Picard didn’t envy it now. As a human, he could try to forget what happened down on the surface and, over time, the memory would fade as others had. Data could never forget. Perhaps his current state was his way of healing, allowing his systems time to process it all. Some might’ve said Picard was humanizing a machine that either worked or didn’t, but he was glad he didn’t share their blinkered view of the universe.

“No luck,” Geordi whispered, disabling the instrument. “Goodnight, Captain.” He patted Data’s leg before leaving them both to sleep.

*

The dregs of a fiery nightmare drained from Picard’s mind as he woke to a sharp muscle cramp in his shin. Flattening his foot against the floor to relieve it, he realized the ship’s alpha shift was starting. The nurses who’d draped a blanket over his shoulders and taken readings from him overnight were leaving, the fresh faces of new staff taking their places in the ICU. They each nodded respectfully in his direction.

Beverly was among those rotating, though returning to duty. She gave Picard a knowing look as he rubbed the back of his shin that said, _wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your bed?_ before walking through to her office where the staff had gathered, awaiting their morning briefing.

Data hadn’t moved a millimeter in the night. The blanket stayed tucked around his middle, rising and falling softly as his respiratory subroutine continued working automatically. It was of no reassurance.

With sickbay empty, Picard let his hand rest upon Data’s. He stroked his knuckles softly with his thumb, hoping there’d be some reaction this time. Beverly had said she didn’t know what comfort meant to Data: a statement almost presuming he was suffering. She hadn’t seen him down on Rigas Four. She’d seen the damage, of course, but Picard wondered if he was the only one aboard concerned for Data’s emotional well-being following such trauma. A foolish endeavor, giving that Data often confessed to possessing no capacity for emotion, but he wondered regardless.

Data’s golden skin was warm against Picard’s palm: average human body temperature. It was at least a comfort to Picard to touch him—physical contact was the only available connection they could have while Data remained unresponsive. He recalled stroking the exposed alloy of his face on the surface, wanting Data to know he was there. There was no way of knowing if touch meant anything to him, if it could soothe him in any tangible way, but…

_Soothe_ him. Now, why was that familiar?

Picard leaped from his chair, knocking it to the floor as he made a run for the main doors. The morning briefing had ended, Beverly leading her staff back in. She stopped mid-step.

“Is everything all right, Captain?”

“Yes! But you may want to evacuate sickbay.”

*

Picard returned holding Spot at arm’s length, his ginger legs and tail dangling. All it had taken were the Saaremaaran artifact’s reflections to coax him from his shadowy corner in Data’s quarters and into Picard’s grasp.

“If everyone would please keep their distance,” he said, lowering Spot onto Data’s stomach.

“Gladly,” someone mumbled. Spot had made enemies in every department.

Spot was tense, back arched and tail whipping angrily as he stared down those gathered around the bed. Upon realizing he was standing on his master, he calmed a little, but it wasn’t enough.

“Captain,” Beverly said sternly, “what is—”

Picard shushed her, and she stiffened in irritation. “Let Spot do his work.”

He sat in his chair—stood upright again—and stroked Spot’s back while he settled, padding a circle upon Data’s stomach before sitting and tucking his legs beneath himself. As soon as he began purring, Picard stroked his fur, arm aching from the effort, hoping to find that special octave and petting technique Data confessed to finding ‘almost soothing.’

Beverly came and stood at the foot of the bed. She watched intently, hope and a fraction of confusion in her eyes.

They both gasped when Data’s fingers twitched. His hand rose in a jerky movement, coming up to where Spot was curled on his abdomen. While the rest of him remained immobile, he took over from Picard, stroking Spot’s back in a slow, steady motion, as though it was one of his automatic systems booting up. After thirty seconds, his eyes opened.

“Captain?” He jolted upright, mouth agape as Spot repositioned himself on his lap. “Sir, are you—”

“In one piece? Yes, Data, I’m perfectly fine.” He felt Beverly’s ice-cold glare through the back of his head at that.

After passing on the very good news that Data was awake to La Forge via her commbadge, Beverly opened her medical scanner and welcomed Data back as she took a reading. Picard stepped back and let the good doctor work, so relieved he thought he might take her up on that whole resting while horizontal idea.

*

La Forge had given Data every possible scan and verified he was functioning within normal parameters once again. He found no cause for the delay in his reinitiating and congratulated Picard on bringing Spot to sickbay. He theorized that introducing Data to a situation where his personally programmed ‘reflex’ subroutines could kick in had given his fragmented systems an opportunity to relink themselves.

Data had requested time to run self-diagnostics before returning to duty—only because he didn’t want to put the crew at any risk—and Beverly had told him, frankly, he’d be given the same time to recover as the captain. Doctor’s orders.

Throughout his examination, Data glanced at Picard at regular intervals. Picard wondered if he was imagining the concern in his features.

*

While Dr. Crusher insisted Data take some time ‘for himself’—a contradiction, as there was no time he could spend without involving himself—he did not consider researching the _Blythe_’s discovery outside the realm of what he might usually do to occupy himself during leisure periods.

Through his quarter’s viewport, the _Blythe_ navigated space in tandem with the _Enterprise_, both ships hot on the radiation trail leading them towards the dusty lanes of the Ophiuchus system. Further scanning would be required once they reached their destination, as a nearby black hole had distorted the trail, perhaps on purpose. A popular topic in Ten Forward was that the Saaremaarans might possess the technology to enter the black hole unharmed, therefore ending their chase. Others, like Commander Riker, were more confident they would discover something much more interesting than a dead end.

Spot was enjoying feline supplement number twenty-five while the _Blythe_’s telemetry data scrolled automatically on Data’s console screen. His optical sensors consumed and stored the information, but he was not digesting it; a personal concern had him too preoccupied to process it currently. After revisiting and studying his behavior on Rigas Four’s surface, he had concluded that there was an error loose in his programming. It was imperative he find and remove it.

Data’s door chimed for the second time. Blinking away from the console, he called for his visitor to enter. The doors parted to reveal the captain, brow furrowed in concern.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Data?”

“Yes, sir.” He pulled on a brief smile. “I am anticipating returning to active duty.”

Picard’s face lightened with understanding. “You haven’t been enjoying your free time either, then?”

Throughout his free time, Data had dwelt on moments from the disastrous mission: penetrating the cloak; the events on the surface; the period of empty time in his memory engrams, not missing but not comprehensible either; and the unrecognizable sensation when he came back online in sickbay to find the captain alive. This feedback loop distracted him, pulled his mnemonic network away from his usual mental tasks and into a riddle. He translated the issue into words Picard might easily grasp: “I have found it difficult to concentrate.”

“Oh?” Picard sat in the opposite chair and appeared ready to listen. Data was uncertain what it was he wanted to say precisely, but as Counselor Troi often told him, sharing a problem with others helped it become less daunting.

“Captain, may I speak candidly?”

“Of course.”

“On Rigas Four’s surface, when my sensors were bombarded with what you termed ‘pain’, I experienced several accompanying sensations that I believe caused me to disobey your orders.”

Picard almost tutted. “Don’t concern yourself with that, Data. You were only trying to protect me.”

“That is my point, sir. My urge, or wish, to protect you was strong enough it surpassed my sense of duty. These accompanying sensations… persist.”

Picard smiled weakly. “I believe I felt something similar. I simply could not bear the thought of abandoning you, despite knowing you were, as you said, repairable.”

“You put yourself in danger to assist me.”

“And that troubles you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because you believe my life has more value?”

Data blinked and lowered his eyebrows as if it was obvious. “Yes, sir.”

Picard shook his head, his gaze falling to his lap. When he looked up again, his expression was somewhat brighter.

“I want you to have something.” Reaching down into a bag Data had not noticed the captain bring with him, he withdrew the Saaremaaran artifact he had shared previously. As he held it out, Spot’s ears pricked up. “You and Spot will have much more fun with this than I ever will. I’ll only keep it locked away in a drawer.”

Data did not reach for it. “I cannot accept this. It is precious to you.”

“Exactly why I wish to make a gift of it.”

“Sir, may I remind you, less than twenty-four hours ago you were suffering from a concussion and your decision-making ability may have been—”

Picard smiled and cut him off. “I’m of perfectly sound mind, Data. In fact, after Rigas Four, I think I’m seeing clearer than ever what one should consider ‘precious.’”

As he placed the artifact on Data’s desk, he kept hold of it a moment before letting go. Data expected him to sit back in his chair. Instead, he reached out and gripped the back of Data’s hand softly.

Believing he understood Picard’s meaning, Data nodded. “Thank you, sir. I am sure Spot will derive much pleasure from this object.” He slid the glistening egg-shaped mystery across his desk to examine it as Picard sat back. “Perhaps that is its purpose. Entertainment.”

Spot jumped up onto the desk to investigate his shiny new toy.

“It is now,” Picard said with a laugh.

As they discussed whether the Saaremaarans might keep domesticated species aboard their vessels, the _Enterprise_ continued onward, delivering them to their next adventure.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: 'Lose Sight of the Shore' by flowerdeluce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24217879) by [peasina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peasina/pseuds/peasina)


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